


Cold Fusion

by DJLiopleurodon



Series: Bound [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Aftermath, Angry Natasha, Budapest, Coffee, Death-threat by cornflake, Deleted Scenes, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Makeup Sex, Mopey Clint, POV Clint Barton, POV Natasha Romanov, Paris (City), Science (sort of), Vacation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-08 02:28:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1923300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJLiopleurodon/pseuds/DJLiopleurodon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Bound" - "If Clint Barton looks at me like I'm made of glass one more time, I'm going to..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Black Widow**

If Clint Barton looks at me like I'm made of glass one more time, I'm going to kick his ass.

I could do it too.

We are sitting in a cafe on a side street in Paris. I catch him looking at me over his demitasse when I glance up from  _Le Figaro_. Even through his dark sunglasses, I can feel "that" look in his eyes. At the mixture of self-reproach, affection and pity, anger flushes hot across my cheeks and my heart clenches a little. I want to slap him.

I'm torn between reminding him that even trying his damnedest, I still beat him and pointing out how crucial he was in the battle of New York. I'm not sure what, if anything, I could say to reach him. There seems a gulf impassible between us as he wrestles with what Loki did to him. Clint always knows what to say to me to calm me and bring me back from the brink—often it's nothing—and I used to be able to do the same for him. But what can I possibly say to him to assuage the guilt he feels even though we both know how little control he had?

We've recently arrived in France where we were scheduled to "meet" with the council via a secure web link at the US embassy for debriefing. I went in for my grilling first; the contents of such tribunals are sealed. Suffice it to say I told the truth, the almost-whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Following his debriefing by the council, Clint disappeared for hours until he came stumbling back to our hotel three sheets to the wind. He woke up the next morning, threw up in the tiny hotel bathroom and went back to bed. The council called me in for a second interview that day and seemed very insistent that I betray some hint that might contradict Clint's story. They had already debriefed Fury, Hill, Selvig and whoever else they could, but they still wanted evidence Clint had been acting voluntarily. I think our testimony finally convinced them, but I bet it will be a good long time before we get a decent field assignment again.

That's fine with me; this is my first vacation in... well, ever.

Now if only I could get Clint to stop berating himself. If that is, in fact, what he's doing. Even before the debriefing, he was pulling away from me; retreating into his Hawkeye persona. The lone-gunman, keeps-his-own-counsel thing impressed the hell out of the junior agents, but it has been a long time since he's been that way with me. Our partnership has always consisted of complete confidence, more so since we started sleeping together.

After arriving in Budapest, we spent two weeks in quiet comfort and loud sex. It's so freeing to just  **be**  somewhere; it's an entirely foreign concept to me. We weren't following anyone, gathering intel or awaiting a kill order. We weren't trying to blend in as locals or invisible nobodies or Russian arms dealers or obnoxious American tourists. Despite the world-wide attention on the Avengers, no one is focused on us. We are invisible next to the Hulk and the rest. We've been free to go where we pleased unnoticed.

We talked, we ate, we walked, we made love and we trained for the simple joy of it.

But it didn't last long.

A small park near our hotel has an athletic field where a martial arts school works out several mornings a week, so no one raised an eyebrow when we began to spar there too. We had to be careful to keep our more showy techniques in check. We didn't want to attract spectators.

We spent hours there. A few days before we left Hungary, our session started out like always, sparring and exulting in the precise movements; evenly matched and constantly challenging one another. I never feel so close to anyone as I do when Clint and I face each other like this. The fluidity and synchronization we have as we move together is a singular experience.

That day, the experience ended with him pinning me on the grass, face to face and breathing hard. I watched the triumphant sparkle in his eyes die as he lay on top of me. He got up, grabbed his towel and wiped his face as he headed for the hotel. He has refused to train with me ever since.

And it's really pissing me off.

Even more than the reserved, almost perfunctory way he's been fucking me ever since that day.

So here we sit in the supposedly most amorous city in the world, surrounded by saccharine-sweet couples wandering the streets and, I swear to God, feeding each other fucking crepes, a mile apart even though our knees are touching beneath the table.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. It's a secure transmission call and Nick Fury's unmistakable voice is clear:

" _Enough screwing around. It's time to get back to work."_


	2. Chapter 2

**Hawkeye**

Fury calls us to the Helicarrier's briefing room to give us our assignment. He enters and tosses a mission brief on the table. I want a crisis dire enough to call in the whole Avengers team.

Stark is rebuilding his tower. Bruce Banner is geeking out in Stark's R&D department. Steve Rogers is rediscovering America. And me - I'm hoping Fury is reassembling the team to deal with a global threat; something to distract me and give me a chance to atone. I flip open the file. Drug cartel? Mad scientist bent on world domination? A hit on a human trafficker?

Nope.

Watching Selvig.

And Natasha has clearly been assigned to watch me; punishment for her loyalty to me. Clearly, either the council wanted to stash both Selvig and me in a single location or to divide Strike Team Delta by banishing us to another underground bunker. During my debriefing, they played video of our fight on the Helicarrer. They must think that being confined together after that would erode our professional relationship. Perhaps they are hoping to re-question us a few months and get a less united account of the events leading up to and during the battle of New York.

Fury didn't disabuse them of this belief by revealing the extent of our relationship. I suppose I should be grateful to Maria Hill for holding back what she knows about Tasha and me. By now, I'm sure that she and Fury know about us. At this point, I don't think there is much Fury doesn't know about any of us.

I'm surprised being assign to a mission with my long time partner is considered a punishment. I'm actually surprised to be given a mission at all. I'm shocked I haven't been court-martialed. I didn't even lose my fucking security clearance.

Selvig's resentment of me the first time was palpable. He hated having a SHIELD observer as he worked with the Tesseract, hated my layman's questions and my biweekly reports, hated my enforcement of security protocol. I don't imagine our tenure in Loki's service has improved his opinion of me. Nor do I suppose having two babysitters will improve his feelings of the situation.

I should be thrilled at being assigned to such a quiet, easy mission with the woman I...am sleeping with. Instead, I'm terrified of the close quarters. The time in Europe became increasingly difficult as I gained more perspective on what happened and as the nightmares became worse until they intruded into my waking hours. The people I killed. The destruction I helped bring about. What I said and did to Tasha. What I almost did... Selfishly, this haunts me the most. I can still see the fear in her eyes, still taste her blood in my mouth, hear the way her breath hitches when I unexpectedly get too close to her.

For the thousandth time, I shake off these thoughts.

A quinjet takes us as far as O'Hare where a private jet is waiting to take Selvig and us to a small SHIELD facility in Utah; another concrete hole in the desert.

"You've got to be kidding," Selvig says as I board the aircraft, "SHIELD couldn't find me another babysitter?"

"Oh, they did," I say. He looks relieved. "You've met my partner, Natasha Romanoff. We'll be handling your security for the next few months." His smile becomes fixed as he realizes he's stuck with me.

"Dr. Selvig," Tasha says pleasantly, extending her hand, "It's nice to see you again."

She's turning on the charm, slipping into one of her personas. That fact this she's doing it for me, simply to cover my discomfort, makes me a feel a little sick. But I'm also vastly grateful to her.

Soon after take off, I settle in for a nap, trying not to notice the pilot's inexpert handling in the crosswinds. I suppose if I'd wanted to fly us the rest of the way there, they might have let me. Instead, I'm going to sleep off the remaining jet lag. I must be getting old; I never had trouble adjusting to time changes before.

As I begin to doze, Selvig begins to converse genially with Natasha. I drift in and out, catching snippets of their discussion. Most of what he says was covered in the mission brief but Tasha listens, feigning rapt attention.

"...Cold fusion is a nuclear reaction that occurs at near-room temperature, to put it in simple terms. Until now, it's been a pipe dream, the holy grail of physicists, yes, but also considered somewhat of a junk science by many. An impossibility. This will change all that. You see,..."

"...Low-energy nuclear reaction..."

"How does it differ from the Arc reactor technology?"

"Oh, it's very different, in the first place, the Arc technology is proprietary. Also..."

"But it does involve palladium."

"No, no, that's where it differs from the traditional understanding of the term. I suppose I should coin a new term, but the D.O.E..."

"No by-product whatsoever?"

"The Tesseract showed me..."

"...similar to the power generated Tesseract..."

"...still consistent with the Bohr model..."

_I'm back in the bunker. It's wet and cold and Loki is standing behind me. I'm prepared to give him anything and everything he asks for._

_Dr. Selvig is gushing, "This is wonderful. The Tesseract has shown me so much. It's more than knowledge. It's truth."_

_"I know. It touches everyone differently," Loki says, smiling magnanimously. He turns to me, "What did it show you, Agent Barton?"_

_"My next target."_

_Selvig chuckles. "Stick In the mud. He's got no soul." He addresses me, "No wonder you chose this tomb to work in."_

_"Well, the Radisson doesn't have three levels of lead-lined flooring between SHIELD and that cube," I snap, annoyed. Selvig concedes the point with an ambivalent gesture and turns back to his work. That we're able to display these emotions, to play out the simmering hostilities we've had for months strikes me for the first time. Resentment and irritation curdled into animosity here under Loki's control. I wonder, now, as I dream, why Loki allowed, or even fed, these feelings._

_"I see why Fury chose you to guard it," Loki compliments. I turn away and Loki follows._

_"You're going to have to contend with him, sir. As long as he's in the air, I can't pin him down. He's going to be putting together a team." I already know Fury will have enacted the Avenger's Initiative. He sent me full dossiers and assessments a few months ago and I committed them to memory._

_"Are they a threat?" he asks. His tone suggests certainty in quickly dispatching any human interference, but that he isn't completely discounting Fury._

_"To each other, more than likely," I shrug. "But if Fury can get them on track—and he might—they could throw some noise our way."_

_"You admire Fury."_

_"He's got a clear line of sight," I say neutrally._

_Loki's tone turns cold, "Is that why you failed to kill him?"_

_I stop short as he proceeds down an empty corridor. "It might be. I was disoriented. And I'm not at my best with a gun," I shift uncomfortably, wondering if I'll be able to defend myself._

_Loki stops stiffly and rounds on me. "I want to know everything you can tell me about this team of his. I would test their mettle. I am weary of scuttling in shadows," he paces side to side as he speaks. "I need to rule this world," he glances up in an absurdly grand gesture._

_"It's a risk," I say._

_He gazes at me levelly with his dangerous smile. "Oh, yes."_

_I'm becoming relieved that I'm not about to be reprimanded or worse for my earlier disobedience. "If you're set on making yourself known, I could be useful," I volunteer._

_"Tell me what you need," he says darkly._

_Vertigo spinning me, I begin to speak; betraying every trust, completely breaching every security, using my intimate knowledge of SHIELD systems and protocols to break every sworn oath._

_In outlining how I plan to steal the iridium, I also give him the grand entrance he wants as a distraction. I detail weaknesses in the Helicarrier's design—the huge, vulnerable turbines are obvious, but how to get close and how and where exactly to strike is not. I explain how we can get SHIELD tac-gear and a quinjet. I tell him, when he allows them to "capture" him, where they will imprison him._

_My mind skips over the next part, me on my knees before him, his gasp of satisfaction as he comes._

_His hand rests heavily on my shoulder, "Now, tell me everything you know about Fury's team..."_

I jolt awake choking as the jet makes a precarious decent. Dr. Selvig glances over at me, looking a little peaked as he grips the plush arm rests. Natasha sits calm and bored as she surveys the transparent LCD screen in her lap, reviewing mission data and schematics. She flicks her eyes up to mine in that effortlessly sexy way of hers. I meet her gaze for a second but look away, discomfited. I know she's getting pretty tired of my coldness and self-doubt. She sets her jaw and holds her shoulders in a way that lets me know how irritated she is.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Black Widow**

 

I lay alone in my quarters.

I've barely spoken to Clint since we got here. Previously, we would manage to get some time together everyday; we would even pull off the occasional tryst. If we could do it on the helicarrier, we could certainly achieved it here in this sedate bunker-cum-laboratory. Probably daily.

He's drawn up rigorous schedules where one of us is always on duty - nothing particularly unusual about this. However, a nine hour shift is standard. We plan overlap for reports and briefings at shift change. One of us always on-call, but less senior agents took the third shifts. Here, we have twelve hours on and twelve off. Really, on such a detail as this, it's ridiculous. Once protocol was established, we could practically both work 8-5.

The small office we share for writing up reports remains austere and so organized that we never need to check in with one another.

I find my mind drifting; I imagine pinning him to the wall of the office and forcing him to fucking look at me; to talk to me. I'd tase him if I had to. I make him listen to reason, I force him to acknowledge how counterproductive this self-reproach is, I convince him it's  _not his fault._  Somehow this scene always ends with him clearing the work table with a sweep of his arm as he lifts me onto it, unzipping my catsuit with his teeth.

We don't even lock the door.

This scenario recedes; reality returns. I am watching Strike Team Delta dissolve.

And why? Because I am afraid to confront my best friend?

This ends now. I'm done waiting.

I'm still forming this resolution when I enter the little office in the morning. Clint sits in the only chair in the room, eyes dark from fatigue. I lean against the small work table, arms folded across my chest, and cock an eyebrow at him.

"I'm going to confess to Fury. To the council."

"What?" I stammer, my cold irritation giving way to utter confusion. "Confess what?"

"I lied to them. Told them I didn't remember a thing after Loki came through the portal. That was a complete blank. It's not true. I remember every second with more detail than any other moment of my life. Knew where his base of operation was—hell, I found it for him. Knew the source of every fucking supply: gear, arms, equipment. A goddamn quinjet! I knew— _know_ —it all."

He paces the short span of the room a few times and then settles on the opposite side of the table.

"I told them nothing!" He shoves the neat piles of documents and reports on to the floor. He leans on the table, knuckles white. "I could have volunteered information, but I waited for them to ask and then I lied," he finishes quietly.

"Did you have intel on the chitari or leviathans? Something that could have helped us fight them?" I ask.

"No, of course not."

"Most of the gear had to come directly from SHIELD. You know how?"

"There were several layers of intermediaries..." he trails off before abruptly exploding again. "It doesn't fucking matter! I had actionable intel and I denied knowing any of it."

I can't argue with him. He's right. He withheld information; very valuable information. If he admits this, he will be court-marshaled. If I had to answer truthfully, he should be. But I can't let that happen, to allow him to throw his career away. I try a different tact.

"If you do this, it's my ass, too! I've worked..."

He cuts me off as I struggle for words. "Did you lie to the council, to Fury, falsify any data to cover for me?"

"No..."

"Then what do you have to worry about, Tasha?" His voice has never sounded so weary.

"Well, no. Yes, yes, I did, I think. When you came to in the medical bay, it was pretty obvious that you had some, if not complete, recollection. I told them you were incoherent for a few minutes and, after the drugs kicked in, you started making sense but  _didn't_  know anything about Loki. It was true, in a way, you didn't have any intel we could act on. You didn't know where he was, did you?" He shakes his head. "And at first, you didn't make much sense."

He shrugs. "I'll tell them I lied to you, too."

"You told me you remembered everything. I did not tell them that."

I should be court-marshaled, too. I knew, without him telling me, what he was going to say and edited my account accordingly. I was complicit, although the far-reaching implications escaped me at the time. I would still have covered for him, but I would first have tried to convince him to relay the information.

"How much of it would be useful now?"

"There are people trafficking SHIELD assets." He laughs mirthlessly. "Seems like that would be pretty fucking useful to know. The rest," he shrugs, "probably not relevant, not by the time they debriefed us."

"They know your," I correct myself, " _the_  assault team arrived in SHIELD gear and on a quinjet."

"They don't know where to start looking. I do."

"We need to..." I grope for a plan, but I'm still in such shock, the gears in my mind don't engage. I reason that if we could somehow convince Fury to let us look into this, Clint could redeem himself without destroying his life. We could argue Clint found them once, he could find them again. Getting out of this abysmal assignment would just be an added benefit; one Clint sorely needed.

"It's not just that, Nat, and we both know it." He lowers his head and stares down at his hands. "I can't... I just can't."

"Can't what?"

"Can't eat. Can't sleep. Can't touch you, can't look at you, can't even think about you without remembering. My stomach hurts just being in the same room with you. I just want it to stop," he murmurs, defeated. "I want to be able to look at myself in the mirror. I want to look at you and not feel sick with guilt. I set things up where we don't see each other much, thought that might help..."

"How's that working out?"

"I miss you. I miss  _me_. Us. Whatever it was, whatever we were. I've completely fucked it up."

I start to deny it, but I can't; he has fucked it up, but probably not in the way that he thinks. I close my mouth and wait for him to continue.

He meets my eyes for a few moments before returning he gaze to the table. The set of his shoulders is both tense and defeated. "I never knew I could be so cruel."

" _You_  weren't that cruel."

"I don't know," he exhale through his teeth. "The more distance I get, the more I think, what if all Loki did was to unleash my darkest self? What if he just let me be what I really am."

"You are the guy who looked into my eyes, and saw something worth saving. The idiot who brought me back to Fury like some kid with a stray dog. The warrior who stood with gods and monsters armed with a bunch of sticks. The friend who..."

He shrugs ambivalently. I can't decide if I want to hug him or to hit him.

This isn't how I saw this conversation going. I expected to yell at him; he's stubborn but I know how to deal with a determined and angry Clint. I have no idea how to handle lost and self-destructive Clint. I promised him when we first became partners that I wouldn't use my training to manipulate him. I have mostly kept that promise. But even if I wanted to, I'm completely adrift. I have no idea how to navigate any of this. Feelings of tenderness crash against despair and utter fucking frustration.

"You are right, you know, you  _are_  fucking 'this' all up. But not with what happened. It's with what's happening now - you are pushing me away and punishing yourself."

"You think I'm being a martyr?" He sinks into the room's only chair.

I move close to him and he rests his temple against my belly. I run my nails along his scalp and he exhales wearily. Relief at the first physical contact we've had in weeks pricks at the back of my eyes.

"I think you need me to hate you as much as you hate yourself. I would have done anything to get you back and don't want to lose you again."

I want to add 'I love you,' because its true; I never realized how true until this ordeal. All I want to do is comfort him, but I'm abruptly exhausted from pleading with him.

So I don't finish with this declaration, I finish with an ultimatum instead. "But  _you_  will lose  _me_  if you don't get it together. I need my partner back. Or not at all."

I turn on my heel and leave to office before he can respond or I equivocate.

God, I'm such a bitch sometimes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd been on hiatus for a while back when I wrote this and I think my tone shifted. I've been trying to separate the movie from comic cannon, but Matt Fraction's Hawkeye series was a big influence. I think it works pretty well for mopey!Clint but I hope I kept most of my original characterizations.
> 
> If you haven't read Fraction/Aja's comic, go to the comic book store and buy 'Hawkeye: My Life as a Weapon' and "Hawkeye: Little Hits". The aesthetic is incredible and makes me really really want a pair of purple Chucks.
> 
>  
> 
> I also drew from the "Fury's Big Week: Avenger's Prequel" series.

**Hawkeye**

 

I hear her footsteps falter as soon as she thinks she's beyond my hearing. She's leaning wearily against the wall, not crying. The Black Widow doesn't cry.

She draws two shaky breaths and proceeds down the hall on her morning rounds. I imagine her swiping her thumb beneath each eye to nudge any stray makeup back into place. I wait until I'm sure she is gone before rising stiffly.

I retreat into routine; I train. I decide target-practice is out. My focus is off enough that I might make a fool of myself with a slightly off-center shot or two. (With name like Hawkeye, the pressure of reputation is incredible.) The range here is a joke anyway, but there is a decent gym on level three with slick, modern equipment. Still, I'd rather workout in my quarters. I don't want to deal with the other agents and I've never needed fancy gear.

The last time I walked into the gym, I overheard two guys, an older guard and one of the younger agents, talking about Natasha's ass. I left before they saw me.

I felt like a total pussy.

Stripping off my shirt and boots, I rearrange my meager furnishings to serve as a workout space. I once considered overturning the bed and using it for chin-ups like Linda Hamilton in  _Terminator 2_ , but fortunately, the door jams are wide enough to suit that purpose. I should probably order a proper pull-up bar on Amazon, but the added difficulty is good for my hands. I'm not getting nearly enough time with my bow here and my hand-strength is crucial. Finger-tip push-ups serve that purpose, too. I combine them with diamonds until the floor grows slippery with perspiration.

I run through my forms at an increasing pace until the momentum exceeds the confines of the small room. With a pang, I think of sparing with Natasha and miss her terribly. I push myself harder after that; increasing intensity and duration until it passes.

When I'm finished, I contemplate returning the furniture to its original order, but I just can't be bothered. It's more convenient this way, anyway. I grab my discarded shirt and swipe the sweat from my eyes before chucking it over my shoulder to the bin I use as a hamper. I probably need to do laundry.

I start the shower in the bathroom; its small but it's a luxury to have one all to myself. I study my face in the mirror. I look rough; tired, unshaven and pale despite the exertion. I remove the rest of my clothes and step under the warm water.

Jacking off in the shower feels about as sexual as brushing my teeth; a routine task of physical maintenance. It still might be the only three minutes of my day anymore that don't feel wasted. I scrub my skin and hair with bar soap and then reach for my toothbrush and actually brush my teeth. Afterwards, I stand under the stream with my forehead on the cool wall and watch the water swirl down the drain.

God, I can't keep doing this. Come on, Barton. Get the fuck over yourself.

Revived somewhat by the exercise and the, uh, shower, I leave my quarters and walk the halls. I find I've retraced my steps back to 'our' office. I'm suddenly both hoping and dreading to find her there. Instead, only the chaos from my tantrum greets me. I hastily collect the papers from the floor and stack them. I wonder if she'll notice.  _Of course she'll notice._

Her sharp eyes, so imploring this morning, miss nothing, cataloging and analyzing everything. It's not as if avoiding her has made her any less observant. It's easier to hide from myself than it is to hide from her. Her abruptly cold ultimatum: 'You're fucking this up. You will lose me if you don't get it together _,' doesn't_  surprise me. I've been expecting it for months. I wonder why it took her this long.

I switch off the crappy little coffee maker and swirl the cold dregs around in the pot. My caffeine addiction had increased dramatically since New York; not sleeping does that to you. I have an admittedly-gross habit of drinking directly from the pot; Natasha has always hated it. I decide to do her the small courtesy of cleaning up after myself.

I wash the pot out the sink in a small kitchen one level down. It's stocked with coffee, cereal, sandwiches and never-quite-ripe fruit. I haven't eaten since my shift began 13 hours ago, but I'm not particularly hungry. Lately, I just eat so I don't die. I used to enjoy food. But then, there are a lot of things I used to enjoy: a perfectly balanced bow; an effortless trick shot; an exhilarating training session; a bullseye at an impossible distance; Tasha naked in my bed, smirking that in lascivious, lip-biting way.

Natasha; that gnawing sensation hits me in the gut again. I decide to pretend it's hunger.

I've just finished pouring milk into a bowl of cereal (Corn Flakes. Who eats this crap on purpose? Yeah, I'm not hungry, but who ate all the damn Apple Jacks?), when Dr. Selvig wanders in, looking distracted. I nod at him. He pinches the bridge of his nose and huffs at my presence.

I want tell him to fuck off.  _Real professional_. Instead, I say, "Coffee's fresh," before returning my attention to my... breakfast? Dinner? Whatever.

He gestures indifferently, "It's caffeine, that's all I care about. I've been searching the SHIELD databanks for some schematics. It's pretty exhausting. I know they're there, but it must have been mis-indexed so I've been going through files manually."

I grunt noncommittally.

"I know it's there. It's gotta be," he rambles. "See, what the problems is, we can't control the output. We're making great progress at generating energy bursts, but we can't sustain it. That's always been the problem with these things. It was also a problem when we were developing weapons based on the destroyer." His mannerisms become academic; he takes a few steps while he gestures vaguely with his coffee cup and considers the ground. "That was a greater challenge actually; size and portability and all that in addition to the burst problem. Maybe it's a good thing we never really overcame that... But this! To truly achieve cold fusion! But I have to get past the flow-control... Imagine a dam, if you will. You must be able to control the flow. Too much, the dam is useless. Too little, the pressure builds and…."

It seems to occur to him that I probably don't care—and he's right, I don't—and he turns back to his coffee.

After a few minutes, the awkward silence seems to get to him. "I submitted my report yesterday to your partner just like a good boy," he grumbles.

Another noncommittal agreement.

The weariness is starting to stretch across my shoulders and scratch at my eyes. The clock ticks noisily in the room competing with the buzz of the refrigerator. I don't even know if its 10 am or 10 pm. I shake more flakes into the bowl to soak up the rest of the milk, push the coffee aside and actually contemplate getting some real sleep. Maybe I should chat with Dr. Selvig more often.

His contempt erodes a little and he continues brightly, "Hey, maybe you can help me since the other bureaucrats haven't been able to," he says.

' _Other_  bureaucrats?' I think. 'Buddy, if you see me as a… Fuck it. Never mind.'

"I need the data from the bunker. I had plans, diagrams, 3-D scans…"

My scalp prickles at his words and my head snaps up unthinkingly. I guess my stare is more intense than I thought because Selvig stops short, almost taken aback.

Wilting under my gaze, he slowly says, "You didn't tell them either. They never found it, did they?"

"I'm not even sure what you are talking about." The lie flows smoothly, but I'm too tired to hide it in my demeanor. Even a civilian should see the dishonestly written all over me; Selvig isn't deceived.

The doctor studies his shoes thoughtfully before crossing the room in a few strides. He slides into a chair and leans in conspiratorially across the table.

"See, that's why I thought I was having trouble finding the plans. I couldn't tell them I knew what I was looking for. And don't tell me you don't monitor searches." I indifferently shrug assent. "So, I couldn't look directly for them. I…. I told them I didn't remember anything," he confides in a low voice. "But I do. And you do, too. I'm sure of it."

It's useless to deny it, but I'd rather not confirm either. I probably look guilty as hell. I've probably looked guilty as hell the last six months.

"You don't have to lie to me about it. I'm the mad scientist who made it all possible, remember?"

"You kept some control," I say sullenly, hating the bitterness in my voice, "you built in a fail-safe."

The doctor leans back in the chair. "No. No, not really. Not after I really thought about it. A fail-safe needs to be reliable. You don't build the gateway to another dimension without having a reliable way to close it. Only the scepter could close the portal. Only  _he_  could close it. It's simply a principle of good design: you put in a damn off-switch. We got lucky; having the scepter right there. I could never have foreseen such a stroke of good fortune. I mean—what a deus ex machina!

"We were very lucky your partner was there. She's one hell of a woman."

"Yeah, yeah, she is," I say quietly, looking towards the door and so ready to end this conversation. I push away from the table, intent on my bed. I know there is probably a lot more that Selvig has to say, but I just don't care at this particular moment.

But, he tells me anyway.

I'm half-way to the trash can with my back to him when he says. "He wanted you."

That gets my attention. "Excuse me?"

"Loki... He saw you in Puente Antiguo. In the facility at the crater site around Mjolnir."

I turn to regard him curiously.

"Do you remember when Director Fury introduced us? How I said I remembered you?" That was Loki's thought, not mine. I didn't distinguish any of you spooks one from another. But he did. He saw you there and he wanted you."

"Yeah, well, he got me," I say, silently adding, in more ways than one.

"Wait," my blurry brain connects the dots, but can't quite form a coherent question beyond, "what do you mean, it was  _his_  thought?"

"You and me, we were different. He took you the night he came for the tesseract, but he took me way before that. I'm not sure when it happened. Sometime during the destroyer project, I think. He didn't have control over me, not like he did later, with his scepter. It was more like he was a passenger. But he could influence me, like he was whispering in my ear or speaking through me. I thought I was losing my mind. " *

"Did you tell anybody about that?"

"Do you think I would be here if I had? Do you think they would let me keep my security clearance?"

I shrug ambivalently again; I can't believe we kept our clearance regardless.

"I felt his desire for you. No, that's not right," he quickly corrects himself. "I felt that he desired you, but I didn't know what to make of it."

"That must have been distressing for you." I say, keeping the sarcasm to a minimum but still apparent. Suddenly, absurdly, I'm deeply resentful at the implication that Loki took me for any reason other than my martial and tactical skills. I feel that cold, appraising gaze on me even now and it's a weight on my chest.

"I hated you for it."

"Well, coulda fooled me," I snark.

Another distressing thought makes its way up. "How do you know he's gone?" The idea of Loki being able to reach out from where ever the hell he was and touch minds, my mind ... The tightening in my chest becomes almost unbearable.

"I just do. I can tell that my thoughts are my own now after having them be someone else's for so long. You could tell the difference between the two, couldn't you? Between what you wanted to do and what he compelled you to do?"

His words push past the fatigue and the growing discomfort. "No," I respond even as my mind is forming the thought, "no, I couldn't because I didn't want to do any of it."

"No? Well, I suppose not." His eyes flicked up at me in a thoroughly disconcerting examination. "I was never sure about some things."

At Selvig's sudden look of appraisal, my muscles stiffen with shock as its implication dawns on me. I can deal with Tasha knowing that Loki did that to me; there are other, far worse things I dread her knowing. But the idea of this old man catching a glimpse, maybe even getting some voyeristic kick, a wave of nausea squirms around in my stomach. What else did he see? What else does he know?

I wonder if he realizes that, at the angle he is sitting, I could probably lodge a cornflake in the back of his throat and let him choke to death before anybody could do anything about it. I could flick it quickly enough that the motion wouldn't even show up on the outdated video equipment.

I shake the thought from my head. I'm too tired for this shit. What the hell am I supposed to say to this?

I pitch the bowl and spoon in the trash on my way out the door. "Yeah, we're done here."

* * *

I only sleep for about 4 hours before the doctor's words have me up and restless again. I find some (mostly) clean socks and pull on my jacket against the corridor's constant chill.

Selvig's assessing expression intrudes on my mind, despite having decided to  _never_  think about it again.

Unintentionally, uncontrollably, I continue the conversation with the doctor in my head:

_"I was under a complete thrall and you still assumed you were witnessing something consensual? He has hand around my throat for Christ-sake."_

_"Well, it's not like he_ needed _to threaten you. He could have broken your neck with two fingers."_

 _"Yeah, he was real fond of reminding me of that. But, maybe you didn't hear that part. Maybe you didn't stick around for the_ _whole floor show_ _. Because it's not like that wouldn't have been extra-creepy."_

I stop myself before I formulate a response for Selvig. I push myself to more productive thoughts. There is valuable data, equipment and intel in that bunker. I know it's location is in SHIELD's records somewhere. Maybe if they found it, they could trace the traffickers without my aid. By now, the evidence of my greatest atrocityshould have degraded enough that they might not even investigate; just chalk it up to the slew of other atrocities and focus on more pressing issues.

Even if I was discovered, the powers that be seem to have long ago concluded what I may have finally accepted myself—I was the weapon, not the wielder.

Not a single thing I did under Loki's control was something I  _wanted_  to do.

Well, ok, maybe take a few shots at Maria Hill.

And it's not like I  _hit_  her.

Which, in itself, was strange. When do I ever miss? Never. I didn't miss any targets after that, to my great regret. Hill and Fury should have been dead as disco, additions to the heap of bodies left in Loki's wake. Those early disoriented moments were the last fadings of my own will before he so completely severed my control.

But a few weeks after Tasha kicked him out of my head, I gave up that control again to this new sort of vacant existence.

What the hell am I doing?

* * *

I find Natasha in control room adjacent to the server vault, idly flipping through internet traffic logs flagged by the system.

The base's network filters are extremely zealous. We spend hours sifting through endless reams of innocuous web searches, dull IMs and an embarrassingly explicit catalog of our fellow agents' predilections and pornography preferences. SHIELD is canny enough to know that isolating a mostly-male detachment in the desert and then restricting their access to the panoply internet porn serves no one, but they could do us the favor of adjusting the filters. Someone should take Delancy aside and explain that, personal laptop or not, "private browsing" only prevents his computer from caching the details of his X-Tube searches. It's an automatic alert to the system.

Natasha drops the tablet on the desk in distaste.

"Delancy?" I say.

She looks up with what is, for her, great surprise; I'm not sure if she's surprised that she didn't know I was here or that I am here at all.

"Yeah. You should tell him that he's not the porn-ninja he thinks he is," she says disinterestedly. She refuses to meet my eyes and does that weird teeth-sucking girls do when they are upset.

And she's definitely upset _._

Idiot that I am, I pretend she hadn't threatened to kick my ass to the curb less than eight hours ago.

"Me? He'd much rather hear it from you. Wear that black latex thing from the last Madripoor op; he'd like that. Hear he has a thing for red-heads, too. Leave the kid alone. Let him have his fun; not hurting anybody." I'm rambling and the discomfort I'm trying to dispel accumulates.

"I suppose that's true," she proceeds, and I realize she's talking to me like she talks to all the other agents; the ones that aren't, well, me. "Anderson, on the other hand..."

"Wait, are you watching the vids?"

She arches her eyebrow,  _And?_

I can't tell if she's pissed-upset or sad-upset. What the hell, I decide, let's go for broke.

"Due diligence, I s'pose," I say. "Anything good?"

"Not really," she sighs as her tone grows even colder, "but these days, I take what I can get."

Ouch.

She takes out her knife and begins idly fiddling with it; not as menacing as honing it, but...yeah, she's definitely pissed.

The silence stretches on and she shifts awkwardly. An ill-at-ease Natasha is never a good thing. Especially when she has a knife in her hand.

"Listen, Clint, what I said... I think maybe it's for the best if I transfer out of here. There's no reason for us to both be here. There must be something better I could be doing."

She pauses for a moment as if wondering if she wounded me by not saying 'we.'

"I think there are some ops that could use my specific skills. Steve said..."

 _Oh, hell no_.

I'm not even sure what to say. So I say, "oh, hell, no."

She looks incredulous. Uncrossing her legs, she is on her feet and in my face.

" _You_  don't get to tell me 'no.' You never did before and sure as hell not now." The coldness in her voice doesn't melt at the heat in her words. The knife thunks dully into the desk and she uses both hands to push me away. "You haven't given the slightest indication you give a damn if I'm even here."

"Tasha, I..."

She cuts me off. "I'm tired of the Clint Barton Life Model Decoy. This is such bullshit! You mope around for months and then you think you can come in here, crack a few jokes and then can tell me….." she trails off and turns away, hugging her arms over her chest and looking smaller than I've ever seen her. I flinch before she even says it.

"Just go. You don't want have to end it, then let me do it for you. Go. Just…go."

In the movies, this is moment when the determined hero seizes the angry, reticent woman and kisses her forcefully until she melts against him to a rising string chorus. She yields as he holds her tightly or pins her against the wall with his superior size and demands she see his passionate resolve.

Sometimes, she even slaps him for good measure before surrendering.

Such causal assault has completely lost it's appeal for me. Especially when she looks so defeated.

However, I can also see her bouncing me off the door frame for touching her too hesitantly. Crushed or not, she's still the Black Widow.

She reacts when my posture shifts as I reach for the door knob and snorts a sad and dismissive sound.

The lock clicks loudly in the little room.

"No," I say as I settle into one of the console's rolling chairs.

"Goddammit, Clint," she huffs as she collapses back into her own seat, bracing her boots against the desk. She wrenches the blade out of the wood, deftly butterflies it closed and secrets it back near her hip in a single smooth movement. "I'm tired of this stand-off."

"It's not a standoff. It's been you standing by, waiting for me to get it together. Waiting for me to realize what you've told me all along. I didn't want to do any of the things he made me do," I say, the revelation still fresh in my brain. "I did it. I did it all. But I didn't want to. I did not want to, but I couldn't stop it. I could not stop it." I say determinedly, grinding out the final few words. It sounds like one of the stupid affirmations shrinks make you repeat to yourself in the mirror in the mornings, but it does make me feel better.

I reach for her hand and draw her towards me. With minimal reluctance, she lets me pull her to her feet. I look up at her; for the first time in a long time, I really look at her. She looks wan and pinched with worry. Her makeup is wearing thin and she's every bit as tired as me.

"I don't want you to go."

"Ok." Just like that.  _Ok, Clint. I forgive you for acting like a complete jackass for months. For treating me like a stranger. For the coldness and the rejection and the self-absorption._

She stands so close, palms touching my face before coming to rest on my shoulders. Slowly and deliberately, she joins me in the chair, wedging each knee between my hip and the confines of the arm rest. She leans in.

The chair tilts back and we overbalance. My feet leave the floor. I seize her waist and so she falls against me as we topple back until the momentum abruptly stops as the chair back locks into position. Her breasts smother me as she tries to right herself from this undignified arrangement of limbs, bouncing gently with her silent laughter.

She pushes back and regards me seriously before a self-deprecating smile pulls at her features. I'm sure we looked as ridiculous as it felt. "Good thing the cameras are offline in here," she says, "I really don't feel like hacking the vid-feed today."

"No cameras?"

"Nope," she confirms, "just you and me."

At first, it's just a tentative brush of her lips. I cup her face and pull her down for a more decided kiss, sliding my fingers through her hair. When had it gotten so long? It serves as a measure of how much time I've wasted in idle moping. Traveling down her back, my hands come to rest on her ass and I pull her close against me. Her soft sigh against my ear shoots down my spine, fueling my growing arousal.

"My quarters," she pulls me in for a kiss and then gasps, "in...," another breathless kiss, "ten...," another, "minutes." She's out the door, leaving me strung-out and reeling.

* * *

I'm still shuddering with aftershocks and tangled in her sheets when a familiar tone pings from somewhere amidst the pile of gear on the floor. Her damp hair clings to her cheek and my chest as she sits up. We both grope to find neither of us are wearing our commlinks; she clambers out of bed over me.

"Ma'am, we may have a... a situation," Delancy's voice is barely audible as she finds and engages the comm.

"Report."

"It's Dr. Selvig, ma'am. He left the base unescorted. We don't know...um, where he went and his GPS isn't transmitting. We...uh...we lost him, ma'am."

Fuck. Fuck.  _Fuck_.  _FUCK_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * see "Fury's Big Week" comic maxi-series issues 4 & 8  
> Maybe I'll get on Tumbler and find the screen shots, or post them myself.
> 
> Don't worry, guys, Clint may not kiss and tell, but Natasha does. Next chapter: gratuitous sex-scene. (And then, back to the plot; I actually know what happens in the rest of the story now.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Black Widow**

 

Bitch extraordinaire, first class.

That's how I feel when I say it.

I'm so angry at him—the audacity of acting possessive at the mention of Steve Rogers—it strengthens my resolve. Sadness threatens to implode my chest, but it's anger that forces the words out.

"Go...just go."

A small sound forms in the back of his throat; maybe it's the start of my name. It's still that same defeated LMD voice he's used for months. After that, he's stiff and silent. Part of me, the part that the red room didn't quite kill, the part of me that's been nourished by years of exposure to American cinema (generally at Clint's insistence and in defense against his constant culture references); that part of me wants him to grab me, throw me against the console and  _show_  me how much he doesn't want to go. Not words; actions.

I know if he meekly slinks off, that my partner will have died that night at the Dark Energy Research Compound. At first, I can't believe he's leaving; can't believe he really is giving up. I always expected him to come out of it. Countless times I've watched him fall from a dizzying height only to catch himself at the last second. It's not happening this time. I can't save him. And he won't save himself.

So, I don't suppress the derisive huff as he touches the door.

It takes me a second to process when the lock tumbles into place. He says a single word—No—and sits there looking determined and stubborn.

I drop into the seat opposite him. "Goddammit, Clint."

His next words catch me entirely off-guard. _I did it. I didn't want to. But I could not stop it._

He sits there, looking contrite, and gazes up at me from his stupid little office chair with that stupid little positive-affirmation and a stupid little expression of apprehension on his stupid face.

Damn him for being so reasonable. Damn him for so succinctly phrasing thoughts I've wanted to scream at him for months. Damn him.

_Goddammit_ , I say again in my head. _I_ **am** _the bitch here._

He tugs on my hand and I realize how cold my fingers are in this frigid room. I rise from my chair and he draws me near to close the gap between us until our knees touch.

At his admission of, "I don't want you to go," I feel the anger dissipate. The pressure in my throat and chest lifts, leaving me feeling emptied out.

"Ok," I say.  _Ok, I take it back. I don't want to go. I missed you._

He doesn't flinch from the coldness of my touch when I hold my hands against his face. Instead, he plants a soft kiss on the the inside of my wrist. He smells earthy and like soap and coffee. He generates such heat, I just want to crawl into his lap and under his jacket and inside his skin. Instead of pulling him to standing, I climb into the chair with him. I stay on my knees, a head taller in this position and absorb his warmth.

He looks up at me, and in the blue of his eyes I see the Iowa farm boy he never got to be. Hero; soldier; Avenger; cosmopolitan; New Yorker — but as he studies me, I catch a glimpse of the earnest, untroubled man he should have been.

I never consider what my life would have been like if I'd gotten to live a mundane, espionage-free existence; I closed the book on that kind of thinking long ago. But I do wonder how Clint's life might have turned out differently if the world had been kinder.

Would he be in a cozy house somewhere, with three kids and a normal wife, having a normal life? I picture a sweet blond woman, soft and curvy from motherhood, nursing their baby while Clint makes pancakes in the kitchen. Would that have made him happy? No Hawkeye. No adventure. No SHIELD. No Avengers. No Natasha Romanoff. Just a normal existence. Would he still have become something extraordinary, or just been a regular guy, albeit one with exceptional hand-eye coordination?

Not that such a life promises the absence of tragedy or lacks it's own trials, but it certainly offers more opportunities for happiness.

I'm still lost in this; when the chair pitches back sharply. Clumsy is rarely a word one could apply to either us, but there isn't a better one for it. His whole body jerks as he tries to prevent us from falling, pulling me against him as if to take the brunt of the impact himself and I crash against him.

The near-pratfall knocks the rest of those wistful thoughts from my mind. I'm so glad no one saw that. He makes an attempt at dignity and pretends I wasn't just suffocating him with my tits. I give him a "you know you loved it" smirk.

His eyes burn as I lean down. I mean to give him a quick playful kiss to punctuate my statement that we were all alone in the little control room, but he pulls me in and kisses me with a fierce desperation. He shudders when I moan against his neck.

I retain just enough of my faculties that I don't want to be fucked in this impersonal room. I'm not sure if I implore him or order him to meet me in my room. I tear myself from his embrace and gain the hallway before his heated gaze changes my mind.

Training and control ensure I don't betray my true purpose as I take a too-direct-to-be-subtle route. I hope he'll have more discretion and then I duck my head against the amused smile at the expectation of Clint Barton having the circumspection I lack.

But, I reason, who would be watching me? It's my job to monitor this base. I doubt anyone is paying any attention to me. And they would have to be watching  _very_  closely to notice how my hand trembles as I thumb the scanner and shoulder my door open.

I knot my hair up and pin it in place out of my face; it's gotten really long. I can't decide if I want to strip off my clothes or for him to do it. I pull off my boots and socks by way of compromise, as well as some of my more cumbersome weaponry. I miss the ease of my catsuit, but, right now, I feel sexier in the sturdy cotton uniform and bare feet than I ever have in any lingerie or slinky dress and killer heels.

Ten minutes?

Does he really need to wait ten minutes?

Why would I tell him such a long damn time?

Less than three minutes later, the scanner beeps a rejection. The months of separation echo in that single tone; I'd never even granted him access to my quarters.

I pull him inside quickly before he has too much time to think about the significance of that and wince a bit when I shove him against the door a little desperation is lost under my fresh assault; kissing him as if I could recover all those long months in the span of a few minutes.

He turns my face away as his mouth maps the line from my lips to my ear and down my neck. "Sorry..." He parts a few of my uniform snaps, baring my clavicles, "took the long way..." A few more snaps give. "Didn't know if people..."

He swallows the rest of the sentence as I savage his jacket and then his belt. Both hit the floor. He matches my urgency; lifting me and wrapping my legs around his waist. I feel him hard and pressing insistently against my center. A roll of my hips and he groans, tracing my jaw with his open mouth.

I'm already soaking the heavy fabric as he delves into my pants. Trapped between my skin and snug belt, he moves deliciously towards my core. He pinches my nipple and I arch wantonly, driving his hand the final few inches.

It's been so long, I come at the first brush of his fingers. I sag against him as coiled tension slides from my stomach against the pressure of his hand. A self-satisfied sigh rumbles in his chest and I set to work on my own buckles and buttons.

His tongue traces the shell of my ear. He draws the lobe into his mouth and bites down just to the point of pain. His shoulder cradles my head; I inhale his warmth, his heady masculine sent. He draws away from me to study my face, brushing back a lock of my hair. The intensity of his gaze swallows me.

He lifts me onto the vanity as my pants and panties slide over my hips to puddle on the floor. He trails a slow descent; first bruising the soft flesh under my chin before sliding lower. He growls in irritation at the camisole and bra impeding his progress. I yank them off before he can act on an impulse to literally rip the rest of my clothes off.

My body fills with fresh tension as he nips at my belly, almost at the juncture of my hip. I grip the edge of the table as he lingers, sliding along my inner thigh, farther from where I want his mouth. His fingers press closer to my center, tugging lightly at one of the short strands and winds it once around. All this time and he's still enthralled by my red curls.

At my moan of frustration, he asks, "What? Tell me what you want, Tasha."

"Come on, Barton."

"Tell me. I wanna hear you say it."

"Please, I want your mouth on me. On my clit. Oh god, Clin..." His name becomes a strangled keening as he complies. His tongue bears down as his lips explore and his fingers strum a slow counterpoint to his eager mouth.

The rasp of beard scruff ignites my skin. My fingers are numb from clutching the vanity when I caress the short hairs on the back of his neck and my nails dig involuntarily into his shoulder when his assault shifts and he finds a place that makes my brain swim and slide and lightening bolts ricochet from my spine to my toes and back up to my stomach and through my breasts and then up into my skull.

As I start to crumble, I hear him plead, rough and reverential, "Come for me, Tasha." And it's as good a profession of love as I've ever believed.

Floating and formless, the first thing that tugs at my mind is the awareness that the pressure and pinging in my ear is from my ever-present comm and not the rush in my own head. It's check-in time and the four section heads all report that there is nothing to report. I acknowledge each as calmly and as professionally as always, although I know everything but my voice is shaking.

Clint stiffens when he realizes that I'm talking to an agent on the other side of the base in my coolest of cool tones. I swat him away when I see the look of mischief slip across his eyes; this really isn't the time to test my "Black Widow" calm right now.

Closing the channel, my vision still shimmers from intensity of the last climax followed by the effort of sounding normal on the comm, like I hadn't just been uprooted and undone. In the few moments that my attention focused elsewhere, Clint divested most of his clothes. He stands there, sporting only his socks and his rigid erection. He smirks at me; as good as a confession that he had indeed thought about trying my concentration while I was on the comm.

"You ass," I chide. "We've got an hour before the next check-in. Best make the most of it." He returns my smile like I've issued a challenge. My gaze slides from his swollen lower lip to his hard cock and back.

We fall back into each other again; greedy mouths and grasping hands. The comm vanishes from my ear at some point. I cling to him and he lifts me, intending to make it to the bed, no doubt, but managing only to clear the tiny foyer and the closet before stumbling on a garment. The cool, painted cinder block meets my skin in a shock of dry contrast to my partner's blazing flesh.

Folded against the wall with my legs slung over his forearms and my hot cunt pressed against his stomach, he returns his attention to my throat and breasts. I grind against him to no avail, gaining very little friction on the smooth planes of his abdomen, and press my heels against his back as I try to pull him closer. After a moment that is simultaneously infinitesimal and infinite, he lays me out on the bed and enters me.

He's heavy on top of me; a reassuring weight on my chest and hips and inside me. He anchors me, fills me. I cradle him and feel the world rock around us as he moves.

I realize I'm holding my breath and I exhale roughly. Perspiration pricks at my forehead, slicking my hairline. I swipe at my face. Clint, following my gesture, runs his fingers in my hair until snagging at the hasty bun. He tugs the hair pin and the knot tumbles free. He glances at the hair pin; a discreet dagger with its small antique hilt, rounded edge and sharp slender point before dropping it on the nightstand. I shrug.

His eyes become brighter before softening with affection. "God, I missed you, Natasha."

I love it when he says my name like that, all silk and smoke. Emotion threatens to clench at my throat, to force me to say something like "don't you ever leave me again." I drive it away and focus on the present, the physical, the man between my legs, the sheen of our combined sweat on his chest, the soft brush of his hair, the color of his mouth, of his eyes, the sensation of his flesh on mine. I focus on the cadence of his breath and match it. I focus on the taste of him and the tangibility of everything that's now and think of nothing else.

Without warning, the tide is rising around me again and I cry out. This orgasm is a sharp thunderclap, an echo and companion to the spiralling one I had when he knelt before me.

He's biting his lip in concentration; he's trying to stave off his own climax. I can tell he's filling his head with physics and envisioning angles, calculating trajectories and wind speeds, anything to draw this moment out.

"Let it go," I urge, my voice a seductive purr, edged with more promise and lust than any of the sultry voices I was ever taught.

The concurrent orgasm is so over-rated; I love watching him come, seeing him fall apart with abandon and collapse against me and onto my white sheets. I'm sometimes a bit jealous of the duration and the way little waves seem to ripple through him intermittently for several minutes afterwards.

Our breathing slows. He insinuates his arm around me and pulls me onto my side, my cheek on his shoulder and we stay there for a long time before I finally break the silence. It's not what I meant to say, but my mind insulates itself with practicalities and the swirling emotions stay hidden by pushing the more pragmatic thoughts out instead.

"You are still going to have to deal with the traffickers. SHIELD has to know."

"I know," he agrees.

"I'll help you, " I volunteer.

"I know." He kisses my forehead and holds me close.

* * *

Delancy's report is a bucket of ice-water.

Feeling bloodless, I stumble back to the sink to see how kiss-bruised and rumpled I look: very. I wonder how obvious it is just what I've been doing: unmistakably. I consider how screwed we are if something happens to Dr. Selvig: royally. Whether he is up to something, fleeing or just out for a fucking joy-ride, we've just allowed a very valuable asset to slip away. An asset with intimate knowledge of both the Tesseract and the technology behind the Destroyer and the weapons derived from it.

I'm the agent on duty so I have no time to lose. I swipe a cool washcloth over my face, smear a thick film of makeup on my neck and squirm into my catsuit before donning my boots and my gear.

"I'll get to surveillance," Clint says as he finishes strapping on his tac holster and sidearm. Video of Selvig's departure and his movements in the hours leading up to it may hold the best indicators of what the hell is going on, but he's also going to scrub any video of us and we both know it. "See if you can get them to hold off. I think I know where he is going."

At least for now, I have my partner back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise it won't be this long before I get chapter 6 out. Really.


End file.
